I: ice, Iceland, imagination

My mom tells me that when I was 2 (the more I write, the more I realize 2 was a hard year for me!), we were at a friend’s house for a party. Mom gave me a piece of ice to suck on, but it slipped right into my throat and I started choking.
Mom -- as mom’s do, panicked. Dad -- as dad’s do, did not. He kept telling her that eventually the ice would melt and I would be fine.
Meanwhile, I had ceased breathing. I can only imagine how my mom felt, watching her two-year-old baby flail and hack, with a bit of ice lodged in her throat.
Finally, my little face turned blue, my mom threw a huge tantrum, and my dad performed the Heimlich on me.
Lesson: Easy-ridin', Harley-ownin', doobie-rollin' children of the 60's don't always make great parental decisions.

Remember how I told you my family moved to Holland when I was 13? Well, we did. However, just months before that move, my dad’s original orders were for a move to Iceland. I remember looking it up in an Encyclopedia (damn you, Internet, for not being readily available yet!) and thinking we were moving to a volcanic graveyard of death and I would never survive the arctic tundra of winter.
I was much relieved to learn we were going to Holland, land of tulips and windmills, instead.
I had not yet learned of Holland's cloud to sun ratio.

You can do a lot of things with imagination.
Let your imagination run wild or carry you away.
Your imagination can get the best of you.
You can lose your imagination, which sounds bad because I’ve never heard of anyone finding their imagination. Best to keep it near.
Children are born with oodles of imagination, and I’d like to see us encourage them to explore the world of their own imagination, instead of boxing it up to trade in for a set of preconceived values. Even that word – preconceived – sounds stuffy and ordinary.
Why not run away with your imagination, instead?

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